An Ideal World
by Flaignhan
Summary: She's not people.


**A/N:** It's December, which means it's Christmas, which means we can enjoy some festive goodness.

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 **An Ideal World**

 **by Flaignhan**

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Time is running out.

He'd said no presents, so of course, they'd all just ignored him and exchanged gifts at John and Mary's, a few nights before. He'd been invited, but the idea of socialising outside of his own flat had, presumably, been too much for him to bear. It had saved them a lecture about the commercialisation of a day which doesn't even match up with the supposed virgin birth of the magic baby, and for that, they were all grateful. Although Molly had missed him, just a bit.

She wants to sneak it under the tree, wants him to find it later, before he goes to bed, or maybe some time tomorrow morning. She wants him to be baffled by its presence in his flat, puzzled as to how it managed to be left without his noticing, and just a bit cross that someone had flagrantly disobeyed his orders.

Somehow, as John and Mary are leaving, she finds herself being manoeuvred beneath the mistletoe hanging from the door frame. Both John and Mary give her noisy, exaggerated kisses, their amusement adding to the shine of their already glazed eyes. Greg follows suit, gives her a squeeze, and wishes her a merry Christmas.

Before anyone else can kiss her, Molly manages to squeeze her way back into the lounge, from the corner of her eye, she can see John grudgingly passing a crisp ten pound note to Mary, whose lips are curved into a triumphant smirk.

"Did you want to jump into a cab with us?" John calls back. "We can drop you off on the way."

Molly's flat is in the opposite direction to their house, and judging by Mary's furrowed brow, she too has recognised this as a last ditch attempt to get Molly under the mistletoe.

Sherlock is slumped in his armchair, eyes closed, shoes kicked off, a paper crown from a cracker sitting at a jaunty angle on his head.

At the sight, John heaves a sigh, resigning himself to defeat.

"Merry Christmas, Molly!" Mary says, a wide smile plastered across her face. Her cheeks have a wine-induced flush, and she turns up the collar on her coat. "We'll see you tomorrow!"

Molly nods, and John raises a hand by way of goodbye, then they all trudge down the stairs, leaving the flat quiet and still.

She wonders if now is her moment, if she can tiptoe across the floorboards without disturbing him, extract the present from the bottom of her bag, and pop it under the tree, all before he cracks an eyelid.

She starts walking towards her bag, making an effort to ensure her steps sound casual, as though she's preparing to make a move.

"You don't need to go."

She freezes, and then turns on the spot. He's still in the same position, eyes still closed, head tilted back against the top of his chair.

"You're tired," Molly says. "I thought I'd - "

"I'm not tired," Sherlock argues, his brow creasing. "I've just had enough of being around people. It's _exhausting_."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

His frown deepens. "You're not people."

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she looks down at her shoes, trying to work her way through to what he really means.

"If I'm not people," she begins, "then what am I?"

"Molly..." It's a warning tone, one that tells her he's very aware that she's teasing. It doesn't dissuade her from continuing. The three glasses of wine dancing about in her bloodstream have upped her mischief levels tonight.

"No but really," she says, and she approaches his chair slowly, thinking her words through. "I've always laboured under the delusion that I am a person, who, if in the same vicinity of other persons, would make up people." She perches on the arm of his chair and looks down at him. There's a little colour in his neck, just a faint shade of pink, spreading upwards from under the collar of his shirt. He too has been at the wine this evening, and despite his best efforts to hide its effects, his body is ratting him out.

"Look," he says, a distinct huffiness expelling from him. "I like everybody who was here tonight. But all at once, and for too long, and _just because it's Christmas,_ is too much."

"I know," she says, and she wraps her fingers gently around his wrist, stroking her thumb against his pulse point.

"I know you do," he replies. "Which is why I don't mind if you stay."

"Well," Molly says, toeing off her shoes. "If I'm staying for a bit, we might as well finish the rest of the wine. It'd be a shame for it to go to waste."

Sherlock opens his eyes, just a crack. "Fine," he says, and Molly gets up, picks up both his glass and hers, then heads into the kitchen. She opens the fridge and takes out the wine, which is still two thirds full, and splashes a generous amount into each glass.

She turns around to put the bottle back in the fridge, but it falls from her hands with a startled gasp. Sherlock swoops to catch it, his hand closing deftly around the neck of the bottle just before it hits the floor.

"You scared me," Molly breathes, heart pounding in her chest.

Sherlock sets the wine back on the kitchen counter, then proffers a small, square box, neatly wrapped in silver paper, and decorated with a red ribbon.

Molly frowns, and he pushes it into her hands without a word.

"I thought you said no presents," she says, suspicion creeping through her tone.

"I did, but the difference is I know you'll actually like this."

"Right," Molly replies. The pressure surrounding her gift for him increases, and as she slides a finger under a folded flap of paper, she begins having second thoughts about giving it to him. What if he hates it? What if she proves his point, that gifts are stupid because people are so fickle and will never like what someone else thinks they will?

He watches her like a hawk as she unwraps the smart black box. She sets the paper and ribbon to one size, then eases the lid off. When she sees the bracelet, a smile spreads across her lips, and from the corner of her eye, she can see his shoulders sag in relief. Despite his cockiness, there had been a hint of uncertainty.

"It's very pretty," Molly says, and she picks up the bracelet, the tiny beads delicate between her fingers. She slides it over her wrist, and lifts her arm up so she can see the beads glinting in the lamplight. "Perfect," she says. She leans forward, rising onto her tiptoes, and presses a kiss against Sherlock's cheek. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, his eyes lingering on her wrist.

Molly puts the box down, and hands him his wine glass. He leads the way back into the lounge, and Molly follows, taking a sip of her wine in an attempt to distract herself from the weightless feeling that has engulfed her. She feels as though she is gliding across the floor, rather than putting one foot in front of the other, as mere mortals do.

"I've got something for you, actually," Molly tells him. "Seeing as we're breaking your rules."

"Really?" he asks, turning around to face her. Apparently he hadn't expected that.

"Yeah," she says. She takes another sip of wine and plonks her bag on the table, rummaging through it with one hand, shifting aside a winter's worth of hoarding to close her hand around his gift.

It's wrapped in paper decorated with cartoon reindeer, which is really not his style, but she had neither the time nor the inclination to go out and buy special wrapping paper just for him.

She hands him the gift, and he takes it, his long fingers squeezing it gently so that the paper creases and rustles.

"Because my last one was used as a tourniquet?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.

Molly gives him a hard look. She doesn't like it when he guesses.

He unwraps the paper to reveal a brand new scarf, this one, unlike his last, thankfully devoid of blood stains. It's a deep forest green; he hasn't had one that colour before, so she thinks it'll make a nice change. It's also cashmere, a fact that doesn't go unnoticed as he runs his fingers over the soft wool.

"I like it," he says quietly. "Thank you."

He moves forward, and envelopes her in a hug, Molly holding her wine glass awkwardly to one side to avoid spilling any over his shirt. She inhales deeply, the scent of his aftershave familiar and comforting, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head, then moves away to hang his new scarf up with his coat.

"I promise I won't use this one as a tourniquet," he calls from the hallway.

Molly smiles. " _I'm sorry you're bleeding out,_ " she jokes," _But Molly got me this scarf and it's actually quite nice._ "

"Seems reasonable," he replies, coming back into the lounge.

Molly raises an eyebrow.

" _Fine_ ," he says, and he scowls up at the mistletoe hanging above the door. "I'll use John's scarf before I use my one," he tells her, as he tugs the mistletoe and its sellotape off of the doorframe. "But I'll use mine in a real emergency."

"That seems fair," Molly replies, and she watches as he takes the mistletoe over to the bin, pops the lid, then dumps it inside. He snaps the lid shut again, then makes his way back towards his chair and picks up his wine glass. He takes a large gulp of wine, presumably to wash away the memory of there ever being a sprig of mistletoe hanging in his flat. She likes his funny habits, likes being able to read his quirks. She could probably write the Sherlock manual, but she's not sure she wants to share this side of him with the rest of the world.

Sherlock heads over to the window and draws back the curtains, revealing rain splattered panes of glass, the glow of the street lights refracted in the tiny water droplets. He sits down on the window ledge, glass cradled in his hands.

Molly hovers by John's armchair, the fingers of her left hand brushing against the upholstery. There's enough space on the windowsill to join him, but she hangs back. He's been around people a lot today, and even though she's not 'people', she still feels the need to give him plenty of space.

"Put some music on," he says at last. His words are littered with the pitter patter of rain against the glass, an unpredictable rhythm that is half dictated by the gusts of wind which sweep up and down Baker Street.

"Something Christmassy?" Molly asks. She wanders over to his laptop, plugged into portable speakers for the evening's festivities. She opens the lid (slammed shut around the time the mince pies and custard came out) and types in his password with her left index finger.

She can feel the wine behind her eyes, a reckless, daring sensation, which makes her feel like the world is spinning a little faster than usual. She clicks on _Band Aid_ and the familiar echoing bells sound from the speakers.

"No," Sherlock says, before the vocals have a chance to come in. "No way."

She smiles, and skips to the next track, which is an irritatingly chirpy cover of Santa Baby. She doesn't need any feedback from Sherlock to jab at the skip button again, but then Paul McCartney's synths start up, heavy on the reverb.

She lets out a frustrated sigh, and Sherlock weaves across the room, his clumsy feet led by his wine glass, held ahead of him so he can keep an eye on it. He stands behind her, looking over her shoulder at the illuminated screen. One arm snakes its way around her, his long fingers coming to rest on the keyboard. He scrolls through the playlist until he comes across a tune of which he approves, then taps the enter key.

Paul McCartney's upbeat singing halts abruptly, and Sherlock puts down his glass, then takes Molly's from her and sets it next to his. As the slow melody starts up, accompanied by a gentle and steady piano, Sherlock wraps one hand around Molly's and turns her around to face him.

The glaze in his eyes is heightened by the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, and Molly can smell the tang of the Riesling on his breath. He laces his fingers with hers, and places his other hand on her waist as the vocals come in, then steers her away from the table with a few gentle sways.

Molly can't help but smile to herself. A pink heat rises in her cheeks, and she looks down at her stockinged feet, stepping lightly against the floorboards as she tries to avoid clashing with Sherlock's toes. She suppresses a giggle, pressing her lips together as her forehead comes to rest against Sherlock's chest. She can tell there's something of a smile hovering around his own lips; there's a slight change in the way he holds himself, just a shade more relaxed, his hand a little more comfortable in hers.

Molly can't make out any signs of life outside of the room - no blaring TV from Mrs Hudson's flat downstairs, no drunken revellers winding their way along the pavement outside, no diesel roar of black cabs as they whizz along the street. She wonders if she's really lying on the sofa in a drunken stupor, if her mind has created this happy bubble for her before the hangover hits.

But no, this is it, and this is them, and this is what Christmas is now. Christmas is the two of them ticking along together with the help of some wine and some old Christmas songs, and a couple of gifts that are just about perfect for them.

She hasn't been this happy for a long time.

The song begins to wind down, the final chorus disappearing line by line, and Sherlock extricates his hand from Molly's. He tilts her chin up, and Molly raises her eyes to his. She can see every line of his face, every crease from every smile and every scowl. The sharp angles of his cheekbones are softer close up, less severe.

When he brushes his thumb against her lower lip, her heart freezes in her chest. His eyes are fixated on her, and she can't look away from him. He edges closer, his chest rising as he inhales a slow, steady breath.

The twanging guitar intro of _Step into Christmas_ interrupts them, and Sherlock turns to glare at the laptop. Molly has half a mind to throw it out of the window, and the tension drops away from her, her shoulders sagging, her heart pounding steadily in her chest.

She's sure he can hear it.

If only the song could have stretched out for another few moments; if only the producers had managed to squeeze one more 'Merry Little Christmas' out of Rosemary CLooney. If only the playlist had ended then and there. They could have worked with silence.

Molly moves away from Sherlock, her feet scuffing against the floor as she makes a beeline for her wine. She downs a good couple of mouthfuls, but this does nothing to settle her blush.

Sherlock begins to laugh, a deep throaty chuckle, and Molly turns, perplexed. She's not sure what's so funny, only that it's caught him off guard, to the point where he can't catch enough breath to explain himself. He reaches out for Molly, and she crosses the distance between them, allowing him to take her hand in his. He steps backwards across the lounge taking her with him, still sniggering, then collapses into his chair, dragging Molly down with him.

She falls into his lap, but his laughter is infectious and she's giggling too now. She sinks back against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and his hands find home against her; one on her waist, the other on her thigh.

Her head is cloudy now, and Molly smiles against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, his scent nearly as intoxicating as the wine.

In an ideal world, she supposes, there would have been no interruptions, and it would have happened. Maybe there's a universe where it did.

Except no.

 _No_.

In an ideal world, she would be here, right now, with him. As good fortune would have it, that's exactly where she is. Maybe it will happen later tonight, or maybe it will happen tomorrow. Maybe he'll pluck up the Dutch courage again on New Year's Eve, or perhaps it will be in a couple of months' time, on a day that holds no significance for anybody else in the world.

She is certain, now, that it will happen, eventually, and that's good enough for her.

Judging by the soft kiss he presses against her temple, it's good enough for both of them.

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 **The End.**


End file.
